


Spin Cycle

by ladyblahblah



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek is terrible at people, Failwolf, Laundromat AU, M/M, POV Derek, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 05:43:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyblahblah/pseuds/ladyblahblah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Stiles leaves his red sweatshirt in the washer and turns all of Derek’s underwear pink. <br/>A romantic comedy ensues."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spin Cycle

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this AMAZING LOVELY FANART](http://misslucid.tumblr.com/post/42793655918/stiles-leaves-his-red-sweatshirt-in-the-washer-and) by [misslucid](http://www.misslucid.tumblr.com) on Tumblr. HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY Y'ALL, HAVE SOME SCHMOOP AND DEREK FAILING AT THINGS.

 

 

It's three fifty-five on a Thursday afternoon, and Derek is standing in the middle of the laundromat, staring down at the pair of damp cotton boxer-briefs in his hand. Boxer-briefs that were significantly less _pink_ when he'd dumped them in the washer.

 

This is, quite clearly, not his day.

 

He finds the culprit at the bottom of the machine, buried beneath a heap of underwear and socks—pink, all of them _pink_ , this was supposed to be his _white_ load, damn it—a hooded sweatshirt that's soft and bright red and definitely _not his_.

 

“Oh my god.”

 

There's the sound of muffled laughter from his right. Derek slowly turns his head to see the guy who'd been there when he came in standing by the dryers, eyes wide above the horrified smile that he's not quite covering with one hand. He's wearing a t-shirt with the local community college's logo emblazoned across the front. It's one of those deals with your major printed underneath; whatever it used to say has been crossed out in thick black marker, with 'Undeclared' scrawled haphazardly above it. His cheeks are as blotchily pink as Derek's underwear.

 

“I'm so . . . oh my god, that's . . . that's mine.” He reaches out hesitantly, like he's afraid that Derek's going to snap at him, and plucks the offending garment out of his hands. A pair of pink underwear falls out and drops onto the floor between them with a wet _plop_. “ _Oh_ my god. I'm just . . . I was using that machine earlier, and I guess I missed . . . I am _so_ sorry.”

 

“I should've checked the machine before I tossed my stuff in,” Derek says gruffly. He can feel the tips of his ears heating up and bends down to snatch the fallen underwear off of the floor, tossing it in with the rest. “My fault as much as yours.”

 

“Sure. Yeah. But I mean, it's not _my_ clothes that got screwed up, so I sort of . . . I don't understand, though, I've washed this before, it shouldn't have—”

 

“Hot water,” Derek grits out, pulling the rest of the mess out of the machine.

  
“Right. Yeah.” The guy's nodding furiously, still trying to choke back what seems like nervous laughter. “Still. Sorry.”

 

“It's just underwear.” Derek closes the door to the washer with more force than strictly necessary. “It's not like it's anything anyone's gonna see.”

 

He realizes what he's said as soon as it's out of his mouth, but far too late to take it back. Red-sweatshirt guy's eyes have gone wide again, his mouth fallen open in a way that would probably be appealing if Derek wasn't trying to will the earth to open up and swallow him whole. He turns on his heel, picks up the larger basket full of neatly folded clean clothes, and heads out the door without another word.

 

He can stop by the store for new goddamned underwear on his way home.

 

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

 

Derek manages to stay away from the laundromat for two weeks before he has to suck it up and accept the fact that buying new underwear twice in one month might be going a little far. He said something embarrassing; it's not like it's the end of the world. Besides, Red-sweatshirt Guy probably isn't even going to be there, and Derek will feel like an idiot for working himself up over absolutely nothing.

 

The laundromat is empty when he gets there aside from one old woman folding a fitted sheet with a skill that Derek finds admittedly intimidating. He triple-checks the washers before he puts his clothes in anyway.

 

None of his clothes have shrunk or fallen apart or changed colors by the time he loads them into the dryers, and he probably should've known things were going too well. But somehow it's still a surprise when the sliding doors open and he catches a flash of familiar red out of the corner of his eye. He doesn't want to look up, but his eyes seem to have a mind of their own; they lift to the sight of a hopeful, cautious smile and twin coffee cups clutched in a pair of outstretched hands. Red-sweatshirt Guy is sporting a backpack slung over his shoulders, a pair of thick-rimmed glasses perched at the end of his nose, and a t-shirt with a faded Batman logo on the chest.

 

“You,” Derek says, glaring at the hoodie like he might be able to set it on fire with the power of his stare alone.

 

“Hey! Yeah.” He walks up to Derek, coffee still held in front of him like a shield. “Heh. I figured you might not remember me, but you'd probably remember the sweatshirt. That's the sort of thing that, y'know.” He jerks his head in an odd sort of half-shrug. “Sticks in the mind.”

 

“I remember you.”

 

“Oh. Good, that's . . . um. I wanted to apologize again. For the other day, you know. With your underwear.” He's sporting that splotchy blush again under Derek's stare, but plows on. “So I thought, you know, maybe I could get you some coffee to make up for it, and hey, look, I have some here, so. Uh.” He deposits one of the cups on top of the closest machine, all exaggeratedly careful movements as if he's handling nitroglycerin and not hot coffee. “Here you go. That's for you. If you want it.”

 

“How did you know I was here?” is what comes out of Derek's mouth, and he watches as surprisingly broad shoulders slump just a bit.

 

“Oh. I saw your car in the lot.” Red-sweatshirt Guy winces. “Okay, that sounded sort of stalkery, didn't it? It's just, I noticed it last time, when you ra—when you left, and my dad's a cop, details like that just stick in my brain, okay? I was driving by, and you weren't here when I came last week, and I didn't know when I'd get another chance to say sorry. For the underwear thing. And now for probably seeming like a total psychopath. Maybe I should've grabbed a danish, too.”

 

“You really didn't need to.” Derek can actually feel himself tensing up, can hear Laura's voice in his head yelling at him for shutting down instead of just _trying_ , and he heaves out a sigh. “Thanks.”

 

He tosses his book down and reaches for the cup. Red-sweatshirt Guy's face positively lights up, his free hand plunging into the pocket of his hoodie.

 

“Uh, I didn't know how you took it—the coffee, I mean you _seem_ like a black-coffee kind of guy, but you never know. So.” His hand emerges again clutched around a bulging mass of sugar packets and individual creamer pots; he dumps them on top of the washer with a muted clatter.

 

“You're a genuinely strange person, you know that?” Derek asks, but picks up three of the little creamers anyway.

 

“As it turns out, I do. I'm gonna get even weirder in a second here, just wait.” He puts his own cup down, as well, and shrugs his backpack off of his shoulders. “The coffee was just a spur-of-the-moment thing, really, but I have been wanting to give you this.”

 

When he pulls out the bottle of bleach, Derek can't help himself. He feels the smile spreading over his face, the laugh bubbling up in his throat, and he stares down at the cup in his hand as he chuckles helplessly. A moment later he looks back up to find Red-Sweatshirt guy grinning back at him, looking incredibly pleased with himself.

 

“I'm Stiles, by the way. Stilinski.”

 

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

 

Derek keeps the pink underwear. He wears them on days when he needs that extra little reminder that as bad as things might get, at least he's pretty sure that he's already hit rock-bottom.

 

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

 

“I just had to get out of there.” Stiles crams an entire handful of curly fries in his mouth at once and gestures expansively until he can talk again. “I mean, don't get me wrong, I love the guy. He's my best friend. But the last thing you want to do when you're alone on Valentine's Day is hear about someone's plans to propose at the fancy dinner they're arranging, and I mean come on, _really_? Who actually proposes on _Valentine's Day_? I ask you.”

 

“Scott, apparently.” Derek's never met the guy, but from the times that Stiles has talked about him this sounds, quite frankly, like _exactly_ the kind of thing that he would do. “You think she's gonna say yes?”

 

“Absolutely.” Stiles doesn't even hesitate. “I've seen her eyeing bridal magazines when we're out shopping and she thinks Scott's not looking. And I'm happy for them; I just don't need to have my nose rubbed in my pathetic singleness any more than it already is today.”

 

“So instead you decided to spend Valentine's Day here. Doing laundry.” Derek raises an eyebrow and reaches for another towel to fold. “Seems like sort of a lateral move, if you ask me.”

 

“Oh, shut up.” Stiles uses three napkins to wipe his fingers clean—he's learned about grease on Derek's clean clothes by now, at least—and takes a long drink of his soda, going after the straw like it's personally offended him. “Or I'll turn your clothes pink again in honor of the holiday.”

 

“Try it and I'll bleach your Batman shirt.”

 

“Oh, dude.” Stiles looks stricken as he presses a hand over his heart. “Over the line.”

 

“Just keep your hands off my clothes.”

 

“You—no. Too easy.” The machine with Stiles's clothes in it buzzes, but he doesn't show any inclination to move off of the washer he's perched on. “You can't keep lobbing 'em right over the plate like that, Derek; you've gotta make me _work_ for it a little.”

 

“I was thinking.” Derek darts a glance at him before scowling down at the rest of his laundry. “Since you don't seem to have plans past this last load, I thought you might want to get some dinner. With me.”

 

“You just watched me eat my feelings via three orders of curly fries. You realize that, right?”

 

He hadn't, actually. “Of course. I just thought you might be interested in food with some sort of nutritional value to it—”

 

“Are you trying to ask me out?”

 

“I . . .” _Just try, Derek_. The words are circling in his head like a mantra, but still he feels his head shaking in automatic denial. “Nevermind, it's not . . .”

 

“Hey. Woah, no, hold on.” There's a hand reaching out, snagging the side of his t-shirt and reeling him back, pulling him in until he finds himself standing between Stiles's parted knees. His eyes are wide and delighted; the hand resting against Derek's side is deliciously warm even in the laundromat's humid heat. “Let's get back to you asking me out to dinner on Valentine's Day, okay? Because I thought that was a really interesting part of the conversation.”

 

“You're ridiculous,” Derek huffs out, leaning ever so slightly into the hand stroking lightly over his ribs.

 

“Uh huh.”

 

“Obnoxious.”

 

“So I've been told.”

 

“You never know when to just _shut up_.”

 

“You could try to make m—”

 

Stiles's lips are chapped and a little rough. They taste like salt and spice and the lemon-lime sugar from his soda, and they part under Derek's with a soft, eager sigh. Kissing him feels like a slow drift into something soft and warm and safe, something that Derek has missed without ever quite knowing what it was. When he leans back, arms still caging Stiles in where they're braced around his hips, Stiles's smile is slow and just a little loopy.

 

“Do you ever take this thing off?” Derek asks, sliding the edge of Stiles's hoodie between his fingers.

 

“I've been known to, on occasion. But this sweatshirt has high nostalgic and sentimental value, okay? Which reminds me, I've been wanting to ask . . . heh . . . is your underwear still pink?”

 

And for all Stiles's insistence on the value of a challenge, Derek never could resist a straight line like that.

 

“Why don't you find out yourself?” he asks, sliding his hand around Stiles's back to tug him forward.

 

“That . . .” Stiles's voice cracks a little. “That is a thing we could _definitely_ do,” he says, and Derek is already smiling into their second kiss.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> As ever, feel free to follow me on Tumblr! You can find me there at [hungrylikethewolfie](http://www.hungrylikethewolfie.tumblr.com) for general fandom shenanigans and flailing. :D


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